"Where is she now?" asked Genji, "perhaps you will bring her to me some day. I should like to have her with me as a memento of her mother. I should not mind mentioning it to her father, but if I did so, I must reveal the whole sad story of her mother's fate, and this would not be advisable at present; however, I do not see any harm if I were to bring her up as my daughter. You might manage it somehow without my name being mentioned to any one concerned." "That would be a great happiness for the child," exclaimed Ukon, delighted, "I do not much appreciate her being brought up where she is." "Well, I will do so, only let us wait for some better chance. For the present be discreet." "Yes, of course. I cannot yet take any steps towards that object; we must not unfurl our sails before the storm is completely over." The foliage of the ground, touched with autumnal tints, was beginning to fade, and the sounds of insects (_mushi_) were growing faint, and both Genji and Ukon were absorbed by the sad charm of the scene. As they meditated, they heard doves cooing among the bamboo woods. To Genji it brought back the cries of that strange bird, which cry he had heard on that fearful night in Rokjio, and the subject recurred to his mind once more, and he said to Ukon, "How old was she?" "Nineteen." "And how came you to know her?" "I was the daughter of her first nurse, and a great favorite of her father's, who brought me up with her, and from that time I never left her. When I come to think of those days I wonder how I can exist without her. The poet says truly, 'The deeper the love, the more bitter the parting.' Ah! how gentle and retiring she was. How much I loved her!" "That retiring and gentle temperament," said Genji, "gives far greater beauty to women than all beside, for to have no natural pliability makes women utterly worthless." The sky by this time became covered, and the wind blew chilly. Genji gazed intently on it and hummed:-- "When we regard the clouds above, Our souls are filled with fond desire, To me the smoke of my dead love, Seems rising from the funeral pyre." The distant sound of the bleacher's hammer reached their ears, and reminded him of the sound he had heard in the Yugao's house. He bade "Good-night" to Ukon, and retired to rest, humming as he went:-- "In the long nights of August and September." On the forty-ninth day (after the death of the Yugao) he went to the Hokke Hall in the Hiye mountain, and there had a service for the dead performed, with full ceremony and rich offerings. The monk-brother of Koremitz took every pains in its performance.